


morose adamancy

by nauseouma



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon Compliant, Forehead Kisses, Hurt No Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi-centric, Pre-Game Oma Kokichi, Pre-Game Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Pre-Game Saihara Shuichi, Pre-Relationship, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauseouma/pseuds/nauseouma
Summary: Friday is a predictable day to confront Ouma Kokichi, but Saihara Shuuichi didn't have anything left to lose considering the progressed time towards a certain future. Hilarious how that was the exact same point of departure for Ouma Kokichi.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	morose adamancy

**Author's Note:**

> mayhaps my pregame kokichi headcanons are as realistic as the fandom’s headcanons but i hope they’re entertaining at least. pregame shuu is the same in here, i deeply apologise for using the same old aspd shuuichi hc; i just think it’s neat.

It wasn’t an objective view. Ouma couldn’t give a neutral description of what he was seeing past the ferocious frames of the train’s windows. Standing on this bleak, shaking floor and gripping onto the worn-out loop, of which several exemplars were dangling throughout the whole vehicle. The sky was grey and blurry. The ground was half bathed in sunlight, surprising for a day in late October. Nonetheless, it looked so despicable. The kind rays were showering towers of concrete with all the animatics inside. The rays were showering streets, filled with people he could only eye with disdain. Though maybe it was his fault.

It didn’t take a long time of mindless staring out of the window until he spotted a Danganronpa poster somewhere plastered on an advertisement board. Season 53 was coming out soon, after all. He didn’t quite mind, neither was he a fan to be exact. He despised the idea, no questions asked, but it wasn’t Team Danganronpa’s fault. It was wholly the fault of the viewers, feeding the producers and making them do what profit-oriented humans with no morality directions or even limitations of such would do. If it sells, there’s no harm in providing. Ouma scoffed internally. Equally entangled in the fascination though fairly disgusted.

He reverted his attention back to the interior of his current whereabouts. The looks of the people were hopeless, but he couldn’t illustrate himself with a friendly expression, either, so frankly there was no validation in him complaining about the mass. Grey lump, grey lump, and grey lump. Exchangeable, replaceable, and forgettable. But he was the same, wasn’t he? There was no denying, his mind and opinions worked in a sharper way than the broad average, but how does this make him different at all. He’ll end up at the same 9-5 desk job as every middle-aged person in this train.

Ha, a funny thought.

Everything is so stained with the black, oozy, and sticky ink of despair; the way he smeared it around to a greater extent the more his hand convulsed with the rocking laughing was irreplaceable. The mural he created with his dissipated and sombre thoughts didn’t look like anything but eyestrain. You could trace the pain in the stark edges of every turn and meaningless depiction. But maybe it wasn’t ink if it smelled like gasoline. Maybe something would change if an ablaze matchstick was thrown onto his personal canvas. It would have some colour in it then at least. It would be like stargazing. Flames hungrily dancing around the slab, as if struck by lightning.

An odd comparison, but it humoured him for a second in this agonising event. At least the destination was his home and he was free for the day. Actually forever, to be precise.

He did have a particular interest for beginner programming, a bit of RPG maker endearment. He wouldn’t say his imagination was rich on that topic, though. Additionally, he had a knack for puzzle games and ones involved with thinking out of the box. Fun games, he termed them. Games with satisfaction, a sense of achievement for the player after figuring out a seemingly aimless puzzle.

At the same time, he – getting boring, sure, sure – criticised the games rising in popularity. Quick short circuits for a rotten mind to enjoy a throwaway hour with no essence of quality. No growth, no inspiration. Just numbing the flat sensory stimuli. How predictable.

But he himself was no different; trying to go against the current, absolutely just having the same corrupt and stale mindset of the tribe. Pathetic he was, but at least he was aware. Pathetic, yet he was the same as them. He brooded about those cutting thoughts. What did those stem from? Wanting to be special? Ha. Barely. Then what else? What made him place so much attention on the system around him, on the terrifying idea of being an obedient follower. Was this just teenage rebellion? Was this just a fleeting feeling that would vanish with adolescence and turn him into an imbecilic moron? He fretted. He clung to anything but the derisive future in front of him. The same thoughts on his way home as always. Being in this suffocating train.

It stopped at his destination. School was not far away from home but enough time accumulated on the way home to push him into fantasising over fearing. Squeezing himself out of the wagon, he set foot onto the pavement and quickly swallowed the fresh air. It didn’t take long until the discomfort of being outside seeped back into him. Convenience store for dinner and then home. Boring but essential.

He navigated certainly towards the direction of the store, avoiding looking around too much. It looked the same anyways, was wrapped into the same grey colours anyways. Whatever he saw, he wouldn’t like it. The few trees stuffed into the floor for aesthetic purposes in this dreary part of the city repulsed him for unclear reasons. He kept walking, insistently looking at the ground. Perhaps people might see him as a shy high schooler who was afraid of eye contact, but he didn’t care or mind. He candidly didn’t want to see what was around him. It sickened, sickened, repelled him profoundly. So absurd, so morbid, so funny.

The gasoline picture was beneath his feet. Four staggered, erratic, aggressive trails. Shifting direction at every contact and bluntly, being something not worthy of existing. Neither was the painting pretty nor useful. He drew it with his quivering hands out of desperation. The picture was pure instinct and savagery, far away from craftsmanship.

But he couldn’t tear off his gaze from it. There was a table but it turned his stomach inside out. The edges were dull and there were light slashes and scratches in the oak wood. The table appeared to be broken. Clumsily, the legs weren’t entirely covered by the plate on top of them. A strange table. He was in a room? He was in a room, nauseously. There was no door, no windows. He didn’t want to notice or gaze at the room. He was trapped, yeah, but what does looking at the cage do? It may have been empty or not. Focus on the fingers drawing until they hurt and bruise. A light headache, pained fingers, an ill stomach. The portrait in front of him didn’t change. The gasoline clasped to every clean spot on the material. Soon the trails wouldn’t be seen, the path would disappear. Only darkness; black, black.

“Excuse me?” an annoying voice interrupted his thoughts. A rare occurrence and Ouma had absolutely no interest. Yet he relocated his attention to the soft voice. The first things he noticed were his uniform on the body of the other young man. A similar dark bag carried on the shoulder, and a hat that casted redundant, suspicious shadows on the other’s face and eyes. And yet, they shone through. Not piercing, but somewhat they caught Ouma off-guard. Shrill in a tame way.

“…Yes? Do I, uh, know you?” he answered anyway. Unsure. His back became clammy. Standing longer in this afflictive place to talk with someone he didn’t even know was making his eyes hurt. Or head. Sure thing was, it pierced somewhere around the forehead area. And it was distracting. Unauthentically smiling, politely speaking the stranger raised his chin a little to let Ouma participate in his troublesome look longer. “You don’t, but I do!” Despite the circumstances, the boy’s voice managed to get excited. Strange and irritating. Either he was genuinely happy or good at acting. Withal, there was a bad feeling forming in Ouma’s guts. But he couldn’t really label the intention accompanying the other’s distant and formal demeanour.

“Well, makes sense. You do wear my uniform,” Ouma noted unimpressed, not inclined to match the others delight or anticipation. “My bad, I don’t really care about my class. You need something?” he added warily. The boy remained composed, as if he had predicted the conversation, as if he was enjoying himself. Peculiar.

“Aha, I’m actually just in one of our shared classes, that wasn’t my–“ Ouma could see where this was going. How tedious. Nothing to do with this. “Sorry I don’t take notes in class and my grades are average, whatever you need I can’t help,” he swiftly shot in between. There was no connection to be made now. Ending this Friday and leaving. But the other’s facial expressions didn’t change much. He even let out a little chuckle with all the spotlight on his shrouded thought process. Expected, huh? Now Ouma was more curious.

“Are you in a hurry perhaps? If you are, I could escort you and maybe you had time to listen? I live around here, so if you want to decline because of that,” he ruminated with the same pursing of his lips into a grin, “mind to not do so.” Ouma cringed a little at the odd wording. But he was handling his words carefully, that much he could praise. Really good at creating an atmosphere.

Ouma gaped. He didn’t find scrambles of what to say. Obviously, he did not, under any circumstances, want to be going somewhere with someone else. But the eyes he was staring into weren’t begging either. They were pulling him into some kind of trance. This guy was very weird. Whatever he was thinking, he had to give an answer. His mind was entangled and in conflict. About to waste this last free evening for what.

“W-Why not, I guess?” he replied hesitantly and the already familiar twinkle in the other’s eyes grimaced at him. He tilted his head and eyed the street in a way to urge him to lead the way. Eh, stiff. For once, he couldn’t tell what this man was thinking. Unlike with the people on the train. Although… this could have been on him. Ouma was just generalising for his sake and pride. Everybody around him had their own imaginations hidden. Yet, the other boy occurred to not be as pressed about such ideas.

“By the way, Saihara Shuuichi! M-My name I mean,” Saihara’s voice clearly sounded right beside him. With no hesitation or care. “Oh yeah, I’m–“ Saihara intercepted with an attention-grabbing noise. “Sorry, I know. Ouma Kokichi. From humanities. Also call me Shuuichi, or Shuu? … Or, mhm, Shuumai?” He mumbled another streak of names per exactly the same pattern, ending it with a careless beam, compelling Ouma to choose. “A-Ah, I’m fine with Shuuichi. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Protectively, he made the most impersonal choice. Saihara was nice and all, but somewhat was glooming over him.

Or option two. He misinterpreted him. It wasn’t every day, or year, he talked to someone his age. Shuuichi was someone who was good at bonding, he reckoned. No need to overthink his motives. “Sooo, where does the journey go, hmm… Kichi?”

Ouma leered at him, disbelievingly. Got awfully comfortable awfully quick. He gave up on figuring out the other. “T-To be honest, I just wanted to hit the store and go home afterwards,” he said monotonously, stooping at the trembling way he carried his voice. Saihara’s grin may or may not have widened when he saw the insecure and skittish eyes. “Bold words but you’re not comfy, are you? Am I scaring you? Or is it just a thing you feel with everybody?” he cooed in a scary way.

Snapping his fingers, absent-mindedly, as Ouma rarely did anyone see do, he continued “Wow, I thought you were just a borderline misanthrope but you’re just awkward!” A satisfied grin entered his face, innocuous and simultaneously stinging. Ouma’s heart dropped a little. There was nothing yet to confirm his suspicions, so he had to lie low. But something in the back of his mind connected vaguely to this experience he was having right now. And it had to do with Saihara. Or, perhaps, he was just agitated at the truth in his words.

“… P-Pardon me?” he inquired and turned his head a little. Meeting the unsettling smile with a defensive stance wasn’t a scenario he would want to describe in a dramatic way. Despite that, it would linger in his mind for a while ( ** ~~for a day~~** ). The whole situation was only one-sidedly tense. Saihara enjoyed himself? It was the only conclusion whirring in Ouma’s repertoire of ideas. “Hm, whatever. No wonder you are, I just talked to you out of nowhere! I think it’s adorable, don’t worry. You live alone, right?”

Uh.

“Yeah, … why? Wanna tell me how you know?” the smaller boy asked carefully, likewise tauntingly. He didn’t want to give off the wrong impression – with the way Saihara was hovering over him. Like he could predict anything in his mind or schedule. If Saihara was a murderer, playing along and praying for Stockholm syndrome would save him.

Rapidly, but smoothly, Saihara threaded a pretty lie with a little bit of the truth sprawled over it _,_ “We do ride the same train. Although I usually change stations earlier. But you always look so untouched in the morning. Like you haven’t received any word at home. And I’ve never seen you turn in an apology that wasn’t signed by the nurse.” A reassuring chuckle. “You really aren’t mindful.”

“A- I’m pretty sure that’s not a normal amount of observation,” Ouma breathed bewildered, taking his own time to access the information. He could never tell Saihara from the masses, he didn’t even notice. He never noticed. Possibilities of what information about him was assembled loudly droned in his mind. A whirring, swirling pulsating in his chest slowly turned up the intensity with each passing step.

“So what? You wanna blackmail me now?” Ouma formed, although quiet very resolute-sounding. He even managed to catch the other’s neutral eyes. With only a tiny hint of something _viler?_ “I’ll cooperate if you don’t hurt me too much, so why do you bother.”

“B–“ Saihara blurted out and clasped a hand over his suddenly widely parting mouth. His lips curled into an unbelieving but elated grin. His eyebrows twitched slightly, and as he couldn’t contain himself, he promptly swung his head out of sight. He laughed; unbelievably weird. Ouma watched the scene and felt simultaneously stupid on his behalf, and worried on Saihara’s behalf. Not as tense as before but he was nervous about the direction this conversation was going toward.

“Blackmail, you say?” the taller boy calmed down after a bit, voice back to the usual medium-pitched buzz. Whenever he spoke normally, something scrapy swung within his not very deep voice. “Hm~ yeah, maybe you’re not being unrealistic. But I would never threaten someone like you. Nothing in particular gave you the impression, right? I’d love you to get to know how much the truth differs from what you might think at first,” he spewed out with overflowing pride in his accentuation. Demonstratively. Ouma decided to back away – physically a little, mentally a bit more. Nonetheless, the situation gave him the impression of two possible options. Either Saihara was an incredibly good liar or was just weird.

“Whatever, just be careful with other people. They sure may be unforgiving in their empty rodent brains. Writing about _that_ where everybody can see, having your stupid charms dangle where everyone can see. You have no shame, do you? You have no shame. What do you wanna pull? Season 47? Were you that impacted? Pathetic.” In that moment, Saihara’s voice didn’t waver. A bit more high-pitched, fizzling; but all the same soft-spoken and sweet. Yet the words he spoke were hard to grasp. His sneer emphasised nothing and was washed off his face in an instant. It was a genuine statement spoken with words dripping like honey; sticky, heavy, _syrupy_.

“You’re a stalker…” Ouma trailed off, eyes still unsure whether to stare at the boy beside him. Saihara could have been babbling, just ranting. But he mentioned his notebook entries, and his singular charm he hid so well. He mentioned his **notebook entries**. The entries he wrote in whatever came to his mind. His entries full with the darkest thoughts, encoded in something he thought only he’d understand. Randomly switching letters in a more-or-less complex system; paranoid what others would say if they’d known. Well, apparently Saihara had known.

“You’re too pensive. If I wanted to do anything, I would have done it a year ago when it clicked with me. But I didn’t. I thought you were too precious to sully. Not that you care. You didn’t even know me until a few minutes ago,” Saihara’s words dripped of nothing. Hollow advice in a way. But for Ouma it felt like he was sprawling thick nectar on purpose. Was he trying to induce shame? What was his deal with being brutally honest, yet endearing? The ambience was soaked with the tenacious smell and feeling. Touching nectar would only give him an unpleasant feeling on his fingers and take a lot of time to properly remove it. Thus, it was best not to get involved. “You are not pensive enough when it comes to your… let’s say, hobbies?”

“No shame in thinking about schemes how to be an underground protagonist. Nobody would look anyway. Except for you with too much free time on your hands,” Ouma replied with a plastic chuckle, which forced itself out in an agitative way, wary enough to stay safe from showing the bubbling doubt he had. Fear de facto. No knit-together eyebrows, no glare, no tense facial muscles. Just a casual, semi-quiet attire.

“Protagonist sounds boring…” Saihara commented drily, “didn’t take you for the normie type.” In response, cynical Ouma clicked his tongue lightly but didn’t pursue it further. _Normie_. To be called that, a despairful flutter graced the nook of his neck. He was one? No way. He wasn’t. Normies were the ones he used to – or maybe still did – look down upon. And he was perceived as that from someone who even got in contact with his fucked up notebook? The notebook harbouring underhand sketches, ideas and plans. So what does an Ouma do? Does he make a guro fangame with his mediocre RPG maker skills? Or does he maybe write a heavily gorey fanfiction with self-inserts? Whoever knows will just have taken a look into his notebook. Writing down anything out of his mind was a chore, but there were so many precious ideas, he couldn’t contain himself.

Thinking about it, that was hilarious! He was normal, true! Black standard uniform; black shoes, not polished (sounds like a waste of time to him); a worn-out bag from tossing it into his room after school, blowing off steam and probably out of spite at the object marking his everyday suffering; a bored, apathetic face, being indistinguishable from his peers; and last but not least not talkative, not sociable, not entertaining, and average in all kinds of areas, whether it be sports, the arts or academics. Truly he was no one to be remembered. A face to ask today’s homework, a face to act all kind, hypocritical and slimy around. Another replaceable face with a self-indulgent passion for a game where teenagers kill each other in gruesome ways to win money and recognition. Forums led by the same feral and raw viewers who delight themselves with real blood and evident misery and anguish.

Yep, that was Ouma. And there were so many different Oumas. Saihara hit the nail right on the head, and all Ouma could do was get a warm feeling inside of his chest. Satisfaction. Saihara truly did understand his nature. He looked self-aware, though, so it could have just been him projecting himself onto the next quiet guy into Danganronpa.

“But that’s fine! If it’s you, I could even go support character. Ahh, but I’m not giving up on my original plan… There’s only been one support character who went batshit crazy and got a double kill! I’m sure I can pretend to be the trustable character by your side. Maybe share a kill or a two, I have no intention of surviving after all. Just let me do the procedure. I have a bucket list to fulfil,” he phantasised aloud and the contrast was all so clear. His countenance was abrupt, intense, not even in a good way, but all so authentic. And Ouma enjoyed seeing pure ecstasy. Sure, it all ended in killing sentient beings, participants of that nasty game, but if Saihara continued elaborating on his thoughts, maybe there was a sliver of a chance for Ouma to see a speck of art in it. Or more. Humanity has come to this point, anyway, muddled up in the constant, linear, pre-determined state the mass was in. Ouma was going off-topic. The answer was clear without further clarification.

“You are sure… spectacular when it comes to killing. I don’t really care. The protagonists are always the best. But support characters can be good too. It’s the development for me. Might be boring, but it always fascinates me considering they’re real humans. Living through such a mindfuck,” Ouma mused comfortably. Saihara’s attention was awfully peaked when it came to Danganronpa, and Ouma could use it with no consequences.

“Don’t you think they’re already fucked up when entering? Surviving such a thing, it must be hell. But they’re all so happy-go-lucky when they accept the award and reward cash. No way any of them were ever sane. Well, who would be, after all~”

“That wasn’t my point,” Ouma rebutted flatly to be met with Saihara’s mocking glint. – “Sure wasn’t…”

“What I mean is,” he stated brashly and caught Saihara's smile getting softer, as if anything Danganronpa-related would make him swoon, no matter if he agreed or not, “crazy characters are made to surprise and plottwist you. The writing itself isn’t phenomenal. But boring characters with development have so much to them. It’s sometimes predictable, but other times it isn’t. I just like it more than the adrenaline antagonist thing.”

“Yeah… you did mention that in your notes. Just forgot, thanks for reminding me,” Saihara hummed a little excited from the familiar information. For another minute they remained silent as the store Ouma wanted to visit grew closer and more detailed in shape. They have passed the main street long ago and were mingling with the few unremarkable minor roles around them. Shopping, having lunch break, coming home from work, leaving for work. Ouma was consumed by not hate or pessimism, just pity.

The shrill and insignificant store doorbell announced the boys’ arrival in the semi-cramped shopping centre and the smaller boy quickly nodded when Saihara signed him to go inside first. When Saihara’s indifferent gaze brushed past Ouma’s, his fingertips went cold. The slight heat from before cooled and Saihara’s provoking but genuine smirk was nowhere to be seen.

“You can cook?” Saihara flatly inquired, eyes scanning tediously through the shelves. Next to him, Ouma was busy going down the check list saved on his phone’s notes. He murmured a “Yeah, kinda have to” before smoothly picking up the needed products. If you looked close enough you could see the swift and confident movements, motorically and proficiently. “Work too? You know, since your parents left you?” he followed his tracks and made Ouma laugh weakly. “Thought you knew already? You know, since you’re a stalker?” Eyes not leaving the list and his filling plastic basket, he was lucky enough to oversee the other’s reaction.

“Ahh...” Saihara picked up on the staggered, giddy breath, “N-Nevermind…” His voice stopped and his shoes shuffled a bit, but soon the commotion ceased. Ouma shot a critical thought toward Saihara but didn’t think more of it. After finishing the unremarkable trip, he paid from the chaotically arranged money in his wallet.

“So you’re poor?” Saihara inquired, a bit too elated and seemed to be fuller of energy than before, for no apparent reason. “Kinda. Don’t know how it interests you, though.” They started taking a shorter way to Ouma’s home. The uneven pathing, filled with mossy sticks and fetid leaves that looked sort of rotten gum-like, left an unpleasant feeling in Saihara’s throat but the one next to him didn’t seem to pay any attention to it, a straight face pointed forward.

“If my parents left me in edging poverty, I’d just kill myself. Or give myself up for adoption as soon as I could grasp the concept,” Saihara offered with a tone close to one which hoists advice and support at people. Ouma didn’t take time to conceal a little grin, but nevertheless kept his look firm through the patching of bitter weed and sparse trees people would generously call a park patch. “You’re awfully petty… I don’t even know what I’m expecting of you.”

Saihara’s facial expression dimmed a bit. “What… You can expect anything from me. Feel free to demand! Please don’t say such things.” Desperation swung lowly in his words but mostly determination. Determination of someone who grew up being able to afford anything but human lives, Ouma supposed.

“Whatever… don’t sweat it. Just turned out to be what I thought.” Ouma wasn’t uneasy anymore, though he also couldn’t claim to have had absolute (psychological) power over the other, let alone predictability. Was he overinterpreting? Was Saihara _making_ him overthink? Because as proud as Ouma wanted to be of himself for doing something as communicating with another boy of his age, Saihara did present himself on a platter, made himself out to be an easy target. He was letting his walls down voluntarily. The danger he felt from the other was directed inward. Ouma couldn’t narrow down this feeling to his own insecurity and anxiety.

Saihara exuding a threat without expecting a reaction. It wasn’t the placebo of social discomfort that would’ve been caused by Ouma. It was Saihara’s poison-like presence, wafting around, apathetic to whether there’d be reactants or not. Just spreading and contaminating.

“Believe what you desire to believe, I will prove you wrong anyway. I’m a hard worker,” he chirped with a dangerously competitive declaration. Ouma ridiculed this effort internally, tired of his monologue. He wasn’t too measly to listen, but there was this constant feeling of imposed inferiority from Saihara. Wanting to be seen as something lower, but knowing one is superior. He didn’t think saying anything would really register with Saihara; moreover, the other would brush over it and weave it to his own amusement.

“I still don’t get why you wanna visit. Don’t even know you and frankly, I don’t care about what you’re doing, you’re generally just creeping me out,” Ouma mentioned indisputably. If Saihara would get second guesses now, he wouldn’t mind. It was a clashing conflict to let him inside his privacy. Not even because of the merch he was hoarding in an averagely-sized manner. Leading the wolf to the rabbit’s hole.

But to no avail, his complex was getting in sight. The same stomach-twisting rows of houses, the same people living through worthless chores, affairs, arguments. The same people contributing nothing great, consuming and regretting. The same parents teaching their children how to function in this place, ignoring what’s beyond where they are not to look.

Frankly, the evening slowly crawling into the grassy, somewhat mouldy, alleyways made him sick. The walls in need of repair, the old and incredibly unsightly paving stone, broken off here and there, the dimly lit rooms, very remote television sounds from afar, probably from an unhappy, middle-aged man drowning in booze. Honestly, Ouma wish he didn’t notice. Ouma wish he didn’t want to help. In a way, Saihara’s blunt words were satisfying to hear. Just a little unusual with the serious and realistic way he said it, eyes not wavering into the hospitable smile with the slightest wrinkles.

“I will come. You look like a clean person. I surely won’t find anything, so I don’t see the need for your worry. Just lead the way and be quiet.” – “I’m serious, Saiha---”

“First of all, you agreed to Shuuichi,” he scorned. It didn’t take much attention to realise he was more exasperated, considerably louder and flushing. Yet he didn’t look at Ouma, just started walking faster towards the first building in sight. “Also you didn’t mind earlier…” he added gentler after a calming exhale. Voice meeker. _Sympathy_.

Ouma’s vocal cords gave protest but he would be lying if he said he disliked the idea. It wasn’t just the fifteen centimetre and the temperature of their facial expressions dividing them. Maybe he didn’t care as much as he thought, maybe they were similar enough.

“We’re slowing down again,” Saihara drily commented, sparing him a sour flicker of an eye pair for a second or two.

As obnoxious as the thought plastered itself into his mind, Ouma couldn’t dispute that he was correspondingly intrigued and sceptic. The fast pace of another person rarely meant well. Saihara was probably doing that on purpose; obviously it would get him whatever he wanted that way. And it didn’t particularly strike him like the capable man was faking much. Either that or he didn’t have any sense of self. ~~In reality, Saihara didn’t have any time left. It was Friday.~~

“Your neighbourhood seems kinda cool though. Very raw and intimate?” a sudden sincere plush entered his irksome voice. A casual nod and the hint of a polite smile followed, though Ouma couldn’t deduce if that was his honest opinion or just some placeholder.

“Nah, it’s really not that great, I… think.”

“Hmm, not that I have asked or cared. But it’s a trivial matter anyway.”

okay.

“The fact that people live here is disgraceful enough but beside the point, I don’t think they even recognise the predicament they’re in. You… get the point I’m trying to arrive… at,” he finished his thought with a strained smile, which dropped immediately after. He looked a little confused for a second. The confusion only continued when he captured Ouma’s eyes, dreadfully and curiously.

Saihara shook his head agitated. Bewildered by the loss of sense of direction, so strikingly that mediocre embers of worry ablazed inside of Ouma. If he was anybody else, and Saihara was anybody else, he’d have asked him if he was okay. But at this point in time he was sure it was the most pleasant course of action to just shut up and wait until he snapped out of whatever created an overcurrent in his brain.

Ignoring things meant no good for Ouma, as he just completely spaced out, trying to pretend he was oblivious to Saihara’s antics. He thought he was imagining this weird pressure on his hip. An uncomfortable tow or just the tension. Still, hearing his keys rattle piercingly made him recover out of the daze and search for the source of the anomality.

“H-How…” he breathed, clearly taken aback but not really frightened. Just why got Saihara so comfy all of a sudden. The keys from his dirty onyx school uniform’s pocket disappeared and casually dangled between the other’s fingers. “… Why did you take them?”

“To make you move?” he answered, which sounded like a question. Like checking up on whether Ouma was feeling okay. How would they arrive at the destination if all Ouma did was stalling. “You’ll get them when you need them, and apparently that’s not now.”

Patient, still confused at Ouma’s inadequate behaviour, Saihara put the keys in his own pocket. The mood that followed made the bereft one feel like he misunderstood the social cue? With the other’s confidence and forced empathy towards his mistake, it was a given that he would soon doubt his own logical perception. Or maybe not. Not every boy had to be like Saihara. Especially when Saihara was someone interested in Danganronpa.

Against his own pride, Ouma picked up speed and maneuvered them both to his flat. It wasn’t far away from the first blocks of flats they had been standing in front of a few minutes ago. Mysteriously on point, Saihara smoothly flung out the keys, but struggled to find the right one. Ouma taking a bold step forward and grabbing the keys was a fruitless endeavour. Saihara only smiled and tugged at them playfully, enjoying the situation, as he always has been. That moment was the second one that day making Ouma question if he was just a toy for Saihara. Hopefully it wouldn’t happen a third time. Three was a number associated with luck, and he really didn’t need that gamble with Saihara.

Decisive and dispiriting stubbornness and a sore “So _goddamn_ petty…!” from Ouma later, he just sulkily pointed at the right key, and couldn’t supress a weird shudder when Saihara smiled like he hit the furthest plastic target at a festival’s shooting stall. Incredibly tender, Ouma had rarely been part of such colourful display in his dull life. Saihara wasn’t even embarrassed to widen the corners of his mouth so much that his cheeks swelled and reddened. No laughing noise, but the beam was enough for Ouma.

Maybe he’d hear a snicker or chuckle later on.

Quickly gulping those degenerate thoughts down, Ouma entered after Saihara signed him in, a homage to the supermarket he noticed. Presumably just a habit of his, though. No need to get flustered over being treated like a woman. He could picture the sarcastic “Ladies first” on the taller boy’s lips. He wanted to note at this part that he rarely felt these retrograde based thoughts about masculinity and whatnot. He couldn’t quite put his mind on what primal (negatively externalised) instinct Saihara was awakening in him. But it felt so horrendously competitive and submissive in a repugnant way.

A faked thanks is something he couldn’t supress, blinded by Saihara’s smile and vexatious face. He didn’t want to say thanks; it just escaped his stupid, programmed tongue.

A small flat, the furniture indicating a blasé lifestyle, oh the interior of his flat truly looked like what you’d expect. Someone starving off their low income and simultaneously studying in university would have a prettier home. Saihara should’ve kept those thoughts at bay, because everything started radiating when Ouma opened the door to his room, nonchalantly – a neon-coloured climax.

Relatively, it sure wasn’t much: A few posters of exclusively Danganronpa 2 (a classic), season 31, and, as he expected, season 47. A casual Monokuma plushie, banal and utterly conventional, and figurines. Must have costed a bit. Aside from that, it wasn’t too bleak, doable for such a disaster of a person. He probably scrambled together half of a lifetime to get all of this.

“Wow, no need to stare for this long. Psychoanalysing much?” Ouma snarled, in a delicate way of course. With lots of optimism, you could call it teasing. Saihara grinned woozily at the products filling him with familiarity and joy.

“Ahh, I expected more. But given your circumstances, this is… just right, I guess.” Even Ouma was able to read beyond his downplaying. Beyond the semi-excited façade. But deducing _how_ blissful Saihara felt was another question. He snooped around a little, admiring the original figurines and occasionally complimenting Ouma’s dedication; as if he wasn’t any more committed. But as Ouma asked, strangely he just shook his head and replied with “Yours looks more passionately arranged anyway. And what is merch worth if I’m rich? Didn’t have to work for that.”

Not much time had passed, and yet when they entered the homely space, it had already been dark. Throughout catching up some Danganronpa 51 episodes (How cliché. Saihara suggested it. Ouma fervently denied the suggestion but secretly he wouldn’t have dreamed of such an event happening, he was overjoyed), time flew. Rapidly nearing **Saturday**.

“So, you like wanna, sleep over?” Ouma finally managed to ask. At this point, he could barely decide whether he wanted Saihara to stay here or not. But if he pictured the coin trick, he knew he probably would’ve hoped for the coin to fall on “Yes, Kichi, I’d love to stay! What would make you think I wouldn’t?” An impish tingle spread throughout him when exactly this developed. Differently worded, but it was enough for Ouma. Finally Saihara wasn’t the only psychic aspirant.

“But not in the same room, I beg,” he hummed courteously as an addition to the pact. An offhand noise escaped Ouma, quizzical, demanding an explanation, “I should be scared of you, not you of me. But if you want it…–“

“Oh no! I’m actually thinking of your safety. I don’t know what I would do with you if I saw you lying around vulnerable,” he added vigorously, kind intent be ignored for a moment. Theatrically he grabbed Ouma’s exposed arm, the uniform long discarded to be of any assistance. Without fully comprehending it, the only thing that happened after the short, medium painful grip, was Ouma catching his breath before any unwanted grunt escaped his primitive mouth.

“The way you squirm is crazy. You get… what I mean though!” Loosening up, separating. Saihara gladly chose the couch. A little disturbed, but being better off pretending what had happened was just a fever dream and accepting the weird part of Saihara for just one day, Ouma left to his ardently decorated room.

Everything ends Saturday noon. Two months ago, auditions had taken place. One month ago, Ouma was told to have been accepted, and the period until the new season would be staged was exactly one month. Mixed feelings indeed have entered and settled in Ouma’s chest. On the bright side, there’d be no third time he had to put up with feeling like a mere entertainment object for Saihara, putting up with his shenanigans, but on the other side… he did make an acquaintance with shared interests, right? As weird as Saihara was, it was the first time in a long time. Grimly long. Closing his brown orbs, tinted with a breeze of purple, he tried to quieten down all the feelings and thoughts lingering inside of him.

Sticky eyelashes, boring brown-olive eyes opened with the unfiltered sunlight seizing the living room. Saihara’s heart was pumping, he was sweaty for no reason and head dizzy. This wasn’t always the case, but also nothing new. Especially taking his situation in account. Despite what he had said the day before, he peeked into Ouma’s room. And his senses shut down, only Ouma on his mind, he tiptoed into the room. It went all so unplanned and hysterically. A silky and frightened (he didn’t remember the last time his hands shook in such intensity and accelerated his blood stream even further) kiss on the other’s forehead, preceded by melancholic caressing of the lingering, distressingly endearing and grabbable hair graced his goodbye. It just so happened that he laughed, better than dealing with the bitterness. Fate was sarcastic. If he had stayed any longer, he might’ve fallen in love or something. A fatality he couldn’t afford.

Saihara dressed himself quickly, cleaned up meticulously; really a rarity for him. Ouma barely had any products or food in his useless shelves, so Saihara decided on brewing up some coffee. He wasn’t too familiar with any act of courtesy, but he did picture waking up to the brisk and concentrated smell of freshly brewed coffee as something he would like. And so he did. It didn’t matter to him whether Ouma liked it or not, he could hate it for all he cared. Forget this day, despise this day, whatever. Fact was, he didn’t have to put up with these confusing sensitivities anymore. Today was Saturday for him. A shame he didn’t tell Ouma. Just imagining the cute, envious face the other would make at his successful audition was the tenfold of what would make him tip over. But that’s also why he didn’t do it. Tearing even more emotion from Ouma would be bad for his already fried brain.

Concluding, the third time was the finale. The toy had exhausted its entertainment value and was now discarded, Ouma (and Saihara) thought.


End file.
